


Skinnerian

by elarielf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Behaviour modification through negative reinforcement, Developing Relationship, M/M, Manipulation, medical... things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elarielf/pseuds/elarielf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the people who love him best wouldn't turn down the opportunity to, on occasion, slap Sherlock up the back of his head for some of the things he did. Unlike Sherlock, however, they were limited by social acceptability. Until now.</p><p>After Sherlock loses a bet with Mycroft, John is given the rather awkward gift of a method of punishing Sherlock for all his rudeness and callous indifference and cruelty to others. But he's not a monster and he's not going to use it. Probably. Possibly. Well, only with very good reason...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skinnerian

**Author's Note:**

> B.F. Skinner is the founder of Radical Behaviourism. Mycroft is a great admirer of his. ;)

If Sherlock had an ultimate weakness (and, to John’s mind, there were several to choose from) it would probably be his pride.

“We did have a wager, Sherlock.” Mycroft sounded reasonable and not even a bit smug. Which probably meant that he was smugger than a bug in a rug (…whatever that meant. And was that the saying, even?) and purposefully pushing Sherlock’s buttons. But he also had a point.

“You _cheated_.”

“Well, yes. But you never stipulated that I couldn’t.”

“I see expecting fair play from you was the only real error I made.”

“Nevertheless, it was an error and we _did_ have a wager.”

Sherlock sighed. “ _Fine_. A month at your service. What would you have me do?”

John was honestly surprised that Sherlock was giving in so easily. But he _had_ lost, and the only thing that would be more demeaning to him than admitting his loss would be arguing about it and _then_ having to admit his loss. And Mycroft would hardly let him get away without at least the admission. They could be such children…

“Are we boring you, John?”

“No, I think Dr. Watson is highly entertained, if a little embarrassed by our bickering,” Mycroft said, smirking.

“It was sarcasm, Mycroft.” Sherlock threw himself down on the sofa, sulking (although he’d never admit to it). “Well? What? Join the ‘secret’ service? Root out some boring old terrorist plot? What bloody mess do you have that you needed to cheat to get me to deal with it?”

“Oh, do be civil for once in your life,” Mycroft snapped. As always, the lightning-fast transition from cool and controlled to irritable and petty made John tense. Mycroft may not have been as overall moody as Sherlock was, but his swings tended to be even more dramatic.

There was a loaded pause as everyone reset and Mycroft actually smiled. “In fact…” He reached into the bag he’d brought. “I think that will do nicely.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock demanded. Mycroft, rather than answering, simply held out his hand.

“Your wrist, please.”

After a short, wary pause, Sherlock raised his right arm. Mycroft reached out and swiftly clasped a strange metallic bracelet around Sherlock’s wrist, tightening it like a cuff before stepping back.

John couldn’t hold off his curiosity. “What…”

“A shock bracelet,” Mycroft said. “It delivers a small, irritating shock of electrical current when activated.” He took out another bracelet with a red central button covered by a plastic hood – some sort of trigger guard, John supposed. Mycroft flicked off the guard and depressed the button. Sherlock’s hand jerked, but he never made a sound, keeping a steady glare on Mycroft. “Not harmful in the slightest. Often used in behavioural conditioning.” He waved John over and fixed this bracelet around his left wrist, beside his wristwatch. “I trust you’ll use it appropriately.”

John laughed. “If you think I’m doing your dirty work and _shocking_ Sherlock for you, then–”

“At your discretion, of course,” Mycroft interrupted smoothly. “You may decide that you don’t feel it’s appropriate at all, in which case the bracelets will be removed in one month’s time unused. But do make sure both bracelets are kept close together. More than five hundred meters apart and Sherlock’s bracelet will give off shocks every fifteen seconds until they’re back in range.” 

He paused to make sure that John understood all that (which he did, it wasn’t brain surgery after all, which he _also_ understood to a degree) and then nodded pleasantly at him, ignoring Sherlock. “Good day, then. See you in a month or so.”

The moment he left the flat, Sherlock jumped up and raced for the kitchen (where the tool box was. Of course) immediately working on opening his bracelet. John followed, noticing that Sherlock’s efforts seemed to be doing nothing but setting the bracelet off, over and over again. To Sherlock’s credit, he only cursed once.

“I’m not going to use it, you know.”

“Yes you will.”

John rolled his eyes. “No, I really won’t. This isn’t humane, treating you like this, like some kind of barking dog that needs to be trained. We’ll just pass these off as gaudy pieces of jewellery for the next month and then have Mycroft take them away.” It suddenly occurred to John that they had matching bracelets. That would clink together if they were to, hypothetically, hold hands. At least that made John the man in the relationship. He prepared himself to brace against the new wave of rumours.

Sherlock snorted. “I’ve driven better people than you to inhumane acts, and you’ve been driven to inhumane acts by lesser creatures than me.”

John took a deep breath and reminded himself that Sherlock actually knew more than he said and sometimes conclusions just slipped out. “I promise you, no matter how great an ass you are to me, I’ll never punish you with anything like this.”

That got Sherlock’s full attention for a moment, eye contact and everything, and then Sherlock nodded. “Appreciate it.” And returned to trying to pick open the bracelet.

John sighed. “Fine, you keep at it. See you in the morning.”

Sherlock grunted something, which was at least an acknowledgement. John smiled to himself as he retired to his room. Surely Sherlock would have the thing off by the morning and it would be a moot point.

 

DAY 1

 

Sherlock did not have the thing off by morning.

“Biolock mechanisms aren’t supposed to roll out until 2015. Trust Mycroft to cheat _again_.”

“…good morning to you, too.” John made a bee-line for the kettle. “Just tell me you don’t have electrical burns or permanent nerve damage.”

“I don’t have electrical burns. And I think the nerve damage is gradually wearing off.”

“ _Sherlock_ …” John set his jaw and concentrated on not lecturing his bloody stupid genius of a flatmate. “Tea?”

“Thanks.”

When John went to hand Sherlock his cup, he could see what Sherlock meant. There were small fasciculations on the radial aspect of his thumb and between the metatarsals of his hand, and every now and again a finger twitched. “You’re right-hand dominant, aren’t you?”

“Of course. I have, however, trained myself to use my left with only minimal loss of dexterity.”

John sighed and turned the handle towards Sherlock’s left hand. “If you keep this up, it’s just going to be inconvenient.”

“A cardinal sin, inconvenience,” Sherlock retorted absently, taking the cup and leaving John with the saucer. Probably just as well, the way his right hand kept spasming. “Might actually make the day more boring than it’s already shaping up to be.”

“Speaking of, I have a morning shift at the surgery.”

Sherlock nodded. “I am aware.”

John hesitated… “Um… that’s more than five hundred meters away.”

“I am aware of that as well.”

“Right. Well. Right then.” Sherlock would do whatever he did. It was a waste of time worrying about him. “I have to leave in about fifteen minutes, so… you’re probably aware of that as well.”

Sherlock took a sip of his tea. Noisily.

“Right.”

They shared a cab.

John hadn’t been in clinic for more than fifteen minutes when one of the nurses rushed up to him. “Dr. Watson, could you do something about your friend?”

John closed his eyes and stifled a groan and followed her to the waiting room.

“…furthermore, given your child’s propensity towards obesity which is _clearly_ not genetic, I shouldn’t be surprised at your feeding him junk information along with junk food,” Sherlock ranted at some poor middle-aged woman whose adolescent son was John’s 9:45. John vaguely knew the kid – stocky but athletic and nervous about his weight. He’d probably convert it all into height at his next growth spurt, but Sherlock’s rant wouldn’t help his self-esteem.

The triggering bracelet on John’s wrist suddenly made itself known, somehow feeling heavier and more significant than before. John ignored it.

“Sherlock!” He pushed past patients, noticing one man in particular who looked close to jumping up and dealing more than mere words to Sherlock, and physically shoved Sherlock out the front door. To applause. This was humiliating.

Sherlock, of course, just looked mildly miffed at having been interrupted. “Honestly, a little sense and none of these people would have to suckle from the teat of the NHS.”

“Ah, so you _do_ have political views,” John snapped, not surprised that Sherlock’s politics, such as they were, were as misanthropic as the rest of him. “Just… stop harassing my patients. You have a five hundred meter area of opportunity… go for a walk or something for the next four hours.”

Sherlock did not look pleased. “Within a square kilometre? Well, 78.5% of a square kilometre considering it’s a radius and not… For four hours?”

“There’s a park two blocks over.”

Sherlock, still, did not look pleased. “I was not ‘harassing’ your patients, I merely pointed out to them that gynecomastia is normal in thirteen-year-old boys and generally transient, so they didn’t need to waste their time, and yours, with doctor’s visits.”

John winced. His only hope was that… “Did they know what ‘gynecomastia’ was?”

“No.” Sherlock snorted. “No respect for root languages.” John sighed with relief. “So then I had to explain _that_ too and–”

“You pointed out a thirteen-year-old boy’s _breasts_ in front of an entire room of people?”

“John, don’t be ridiculous. They’re not, technically, ‘breasts’ and it wasn’t as if they weren’t blatantly obvious on their own.” Sherlock snorted. “Since the child doesn’t smoke marijuana or drink alcohol, the cause is clearly pubertal hormone shifts or simple oestrogen production from his excess adipose tissue.”

…or it could be a brain tumour or liver failure or heart failure or… but Sherlock was probably right. Still. “Do. Not. Talk. To. The. Patients.” John hated having to do this, but Sherlock seriously left him with no choice. He held up his wrist. “If I have to be called in to deal with you one more time, I _will_ use this.”

Sherlock’s right hand twitched, an involuntary motion that even John caught. “I thought you said you wouldn’t.”

“That was if you were an ass to me. When it comes to my patients… and the nurses and the other doctors, I’m a little less tolerant.”

Sherlock huffed. “I see.”

“Oh, don’t get all pissy with me. All you have to do is bite your tongue for four hours. The rest of us have to do it our entire lives.” John took a deep, steadying breath, unintentionally demonstrating that very fact to Sherlock. “It’s just a few hours. If you stay here, then stay quiet. But you don’t have to – there’s the park and a few cafes and… just behave. For a few hours, Sherlock.” _Please_.

Either Sherlock read the desperate plea in John’s voice and on his face (and decided to respond to it) or he was as sick of arguing as John was. “Very well. But the moment you’re done, we’re leaving.”

John wondered when the surgery had become his retreat, his place to reset from being with Sherlock. It was only now, feeling petulantly disappointed at the realization that he couldn’t stay for tea with the nurses or chat with Sarah for a bit before leaving, that this opportunity to be (to play at being) ‘normal’ was something he treasured.

But it was unfair to expect Sherlock to make all the sacrifices.

“Alright. The moment I’m done with my last chart, we’ll do whatever you want.”

This would be the longest month ever.

 

DAY 6

 

Almost a week. They’d gone almost a week without John pushing that _really_ tempting button through the simple expedient measures of keeping Sherlock at home (which meant giving up his clinic shifts – something that would have normally been less acceptable, were it not for the fact that keeping Sherlock away was a priority for the clinicians at the surgery as well) and as entertained as possible without interacting with other human beings.

He was civil enough to Mrs. Hudson, only occasionally abrasive and never outright insulting, and rather less civil to John. But he was getting bored and restless and John knew they couldn’t keep up this tentative peace for much longer.

And then Lestrade called.

John would have appreciated at least a moment’s hesitation on Sherlock’s part. After all, John had given up his job, his life outside their flat, for them. But the moment a moderately interesting murder showed up, Sherlock was dragging John out the door with him, practically giddy with pent-up energy.

Which would have been _fine_ except that Sherlock wasn’t exactly ‘civil’ around half the cops that surrounded Lestrade. Or Lestrade himself, most of the time.

John took deep, calming breaths throughout the cab ride to center himself. It would be fine – all he had to do was pretend to himself that he didn’t have the power to stop Sherlock from doing or saying damaging things to people John considered friends (Lestrade) or acquaintances (Donovan… and Anderson, he supposed) with the flick of a finger. He just had to pretend that this was like every other crime scene and basically ignore Sherlock’s off-handed cruelty and callousness in favour of his equally off-handed brilliance.

By the time the cab dropped them off, John was feeling pretty good about it – and a little delighted to be out of 221B Baker St.

“Donovan, cum stain, left collar.”

John’s finger twitched as he smiled apologetically at Donovan. Now that his attention was drawn to it, he could see the slight discoloration. It could have been toothpaste, but Sherlock was almost certainly right, and Donovan’s angry flush certainly lent credibility to that.

Still, it was quite the inauspicious beginning to their first big outing since the bracelets.

“And?” Sherlock asked impatiently as soon as they reached Lestrade, interrupting a conversation the DI was having with one of the uniforms.

Lestrade turned. “Two bodies, male and female, in their early twenties. Found by an early morning jogger, the woman was stabbed four times, the man once. No sign of the weapon.”

It all sounded rather dull to John, and if _John_ was bored, then surely Sherlock…

“Interesting. I assume Anderson’s already poked at them?”

Lestrade sighed. “They’re all yours.”

As Sherlock bent down to do his own poking at the bodies, John took Lestrade aside. “Look, I don’t mean to be dismissive, what with two young people dead, but how is this a Sherlock case?”

Lestrade shot a look at the back of Sherlock’s head. “D’you want to wait for it, or shall I spoil it for you?”

“Spoil me. Please.” John hated being the last to know anything.

“From the angles, we can tell that the woman’s wounds were probably caused by the male victim, but his is pretty clearly self-inflicted.”

“A murder-suicide?” Lestrade nodded. “That still doesn’t explain why Sherlock’s interested.”

“He’s not interested in what’s _here_ , he’s interested in what’s missing.”

John frowned, running through his memory of the two bodies (all the pertinent body parts, fingers, clothing…) and the scene. “No murder weapon.”

“Dead people rarely dispose of their own murder weapons, and there’s a short list of people who’d pick up a bloody knife from a murder scene without at least thinking about taking that girl’s necklace.”

“Not a knife,” Sherlock interrupted, popping up beside them.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “I know you don’t think too highly of our forensic experts, but they do know bladework when they see it.”

“A blade; yes. A knife; no. At least not by any reasonable definition.” Lestrade’s eyebrow remained raised and he crossed his arms, his body language betraying complete and utter scepticism. Sherlock made a loud, exasperated noise. “Good lord, what do you do, just look at the injuries and call it a day? Have you even bothered to look at the bodies, _around_ the bodies? Is myopia a prerequisite to join Scotland Yard, or just a perk?”

And he was already on a roll. John sighed. “…Sherlock…”

“I mean, I expect this from Anderson–”

“Oi!”

“–but you have an entire _team_ of not-Andersons and they–”

“What’s with the matching bracelets?”

Donovan’s question managed to do the impossible – stop Sherlock mid-rant, his hands in the air, waving and gesturing wildly which was probably how she saw his bracelet.

John’s, on the other hand, had always been pretty clear from the moment he walked onto the scene, his right hand fiddling with the guard every time Sherlock opened his mouth.

Great.

Anderson, naturally, joined in. “Are they inscribed?”

“No,” John answered quickly, before Sherlock could. “They’re not. They’re not even ours, really, we’re just wearing them until we can get them taken off.” Everyone looked at him. “It’s an incredibly long and boring story and there are two dead bodies, so if we could all just focus on the more important things…”

“They’re caterers, they were bringing an ice sculpture to a party, they argued, the sculpture smashed, the man stabbed the woman with an ice shard, then himself, then the sculpture melted.”

John blinked. That was amazingly concise, especially for Sherlock. “Right. Well. Glad to be of assistance, feel free to call on us again, good morning!” He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and dragged him off.

“Wait!” Lestrade took out his notebook. “Details, Sherlock.”

“Matching caterer’s uniforms; wet grass around and under them, more than could be explained by dew; faint mild chilblains on the man’s right fingers and palm; wounds getting noticeably less fine as from the first wound to the last as the ice melted from inner body heat; his wound has signs of a blade going in, but not coming out.” Sherlock waved vaguely at the scene. “Find out who hosted a soiree last night in this neighbourhood and they’ll give you the catering company. And they’ll probably complain about the sculpture never arriving.”

Lestrade nodded, carefully noting down everything Sherlock said. “And those bracelets?”

Amid the sniggering of the team, John forcibly pulled Sherlock away before something unfortunate happened. The bracelets clicked together, a surprisingly light, musical sound, and John flinched.

The moment they got back to Baker St, John holed himself up in his room, grabbed a book, and ignored whatever Sherlock was doing outside his little sanctuary.

Three more weeks. And change.

 

DAY 9

 

Part of what made living with Sherlock possible was the opportunity for escape, to Sarah’s or even just for a long walk, when things got too unbearable.

After nine days, there wasn’t a long enough walk to handle this mess, and Sarah’s was right out of the question, given the range on the bracelets.

For the first time, John wondered if this was some sort of punishment for _him_.

 

Day 14

 

Mycroft, of course, cheated. Or lied, depending on your point of view.

Unless a fortnight was the new measurement of a month. John wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft could somehow make that happen.

He was already in a bad mood (as he was most of the time now, and Sherlock wasn’t much better off) when he spotted Mycroft’s aide (…probably his aide) Anthea (…probably Anthea) texting beside a loitering black sedan.

And his mood took a significant dip.

Home, as well as Sherlock, was less than a block away, but that thought didn’t give John any comfort. In fact, it actually made his stomach churn. This had to stop. He walked up to Anthea and waited for her to acknowledge him.

And waited.

After about two minutes, the driver got out of the car and opened the door to the backseat. Anthea didn’t react, so John just got in.

“Tea?”

“Ah!” He’d been so focused on Anthea that he hadn’t even noticed Mycroft already seated in the back. “Um. Thanks?” It took John a moment to remember that he was angry and frustrated and it was all Mycroft’s fault, and how had he managed to brew tea in a sedan?

“Electric kettle, outlet converter, it’s really quite simple,” Mycroft said as he poured, adding a dash of milk from what looked like one of those small restaurant creamer packets. “You look tired, John.” 

“No thanks to you,” John retorted, not even caring that his brain-to-mouth filter seemed to be off-line. “When are you going to end this idiotic experiment?”

Mycroft smiled as he passed John his tea. “I could be like Sherlock and bemoan the lack of results, but I think I’d rather simply be honest and forthright and inform you that this isn’t an experiment.”

“Then what is it?” John demanded. “A game? Some form of juvenile taunt?”

“An opportunity.” Mycroft interjected smoothly. “For both Sherlock and yourself.”

John glared into his tea, refusing to ask.

“You must have noticed that in your time with Sherlock, he’s gradually become more… personable. Some of his rougher edges have been smoothed, and even when they’re not, you’re a moderating presence. Overall, you’ve been rather good for him.”

“That’s really not for you to decide.”

“If not me, then whom?” Mycroft asked rhetorically. “He can hardly be trusted to put his own best interests first, or even to know what they are. He’s better now, but he’s still the same self-destructive brat he’s been since he hit puberty.”

Mycroft’s voice held an unmistakable fondness. John retreated into his tea for a moment.

“So… what kind of ‘opportunity’ is this supposed to be?”

“I understand Moriarty referred to you as Sherlock’s ‘pet’.” John flinched. “Yes. Well, I can’t say I agree, although every good taunt contains a measure of truth. But, if so, it goes both ways. One cannot have a pet without indulging its needs as well as your own, making accommodations for it.”

John laughed. “S-sorry, I’m just imagining you with a white Persian cat.” Like a Bond villain. _Oh god, he needed to shut up_. “Sorry. Go on.”

“Mmm, yes. The point I was trying to make is that Sherlock has trained you, somewhat, and accommodated you. Somewhat. Shouldn’t you have the chance to do the same?”

“…we can’t get more than five hundred meters away from each other. I can’t work at the clinic without him disrupting everything. How is that _accommodating_ anyone?”

Mycroft waved to the bracelet on John’s wrist. “You have the means to pair accommodation with training. If Sherlock is behaving intolerably, then don’t tolerate it.” He leaned forward. “He’s not, as some might have suggested, a sociopath or a psychopath. Nor is he on the autism spectrum to a pathological degree, I assure you – his recognition and consistently effective use of sarcasm and irony more or less disprove that. Whatever psychological pathology he might have, he does not understand how normal people work because he _chooses_ not to understand them. He considers it irrelevant. I’ve simply given you the means to make it relevant to him.”

John shook his head. “It’s wrong.”

“I don’t think you’ll find that that’s an argument that holds much weight with either me or my brother.” Mycroft shrugged. “But if you’re enjoying your endless cycle of frustration, by all means, continue to deny yourself.” He smiled and John’s door opened. “Just consider this, however. Should you snap and give into temptation without warning… wouldn’t Sherlock see that as a sort of betrayal? Worse than if you established rules and parameters beforehand?”

John froze. The number of times he’d _almost_ … “I’m not… I mean, I won’t…”

“Then I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Have a good two weeks, John.”

As the car drove away, John couldn’t help but feel he’d just lost something. He wasn’t even sure what. It wasn’t as if there had been an argument or even a debate, really.

He trudged back to 221B Baker St, with his entire left arm feeling heavier than normal.

He tried to convince himself it was the shoulder injury.

He failed.

 

DAY 17

 

“Ground rules?”

“Just so that there are no… misunderstandings.” Lestrade had called with another case and John knew that if he didn’t do _something_ , he’d lose it with Sherlock. The past three days had been even worse than the preceding two weeks, with Mycroft’s words running though his head, and Sherlock obviously knowing exactly what had gone on and choosing to ignore it by being as obnoxious as he knew how to be – meaning composing at three in the morning, crap telly at all hours when John was around, more noxious experiments than usual that spread into the living area.

John couldn’t do this anymore. And he wouldn’t be able to sit by and watch Sherlock being wilfully uncaring and callous in public and bite his tongue and clench his fists. He needed an outlet.

Moriarty and Mycroft had used a pet analogy. John sometimes felt like it was more like what he imagined being a mother to a toddler or a teen must be like.

So. Ground rules. Boundaries that neither of them could cross without paying a price. It was as close to a compromise as John would allow himself, and if Sherlock behaved nothing would happen. It was up to Sherlock.

Sherlock shifted, clearly fighting between his desire to get out there, on the case, and his dislike of this conversation. As usual, his impatience won out. “Fine. What ground rules?”

“Observations limited to the case, as much as possible,” John said. “Otherwise, don’t start anything. You can retaliate, of course, but you start more than half the spats and you and Donovan get into without provocation, so as long as she’s civil, you lay off her.”

“And Anderson?”

John made a face. To be fair, most of Sherlock’s digs at Anderson were based on the fact that the man was substandard at his job which, from what John had seen, he was.

“Keep it professional and otherwise I’ll give you a warning if you’re pushing over him.”

Sherlock was practically jumping out of his skin he was so eager to get out. “Yes, fine, can we _go_ now?”

John nodded, feeling like a giant weight had been lifted from his chest.

Sherlock noticed the bracelets first, of course, possibly before they were even in John’s visual range. The uniforms, the specialists, Donovan and… yup, there was Anderson – he had to pull up his sleeve to show it off, but it was there. John breathed a sigh of relief that Lestrade, at least, seemed above such petty taunting.

“We have a woman, forty-two according to her driver’s licence.” There was some snickering from behind their backs, but John focused on Lestrade. “Drowned.”

“Drowned? Where?” John asked. They were miles away from any body of water. “A bathtub?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Preliminary tests indicate salt water.” The rest of the team’s pettiness faded away as John looked down at the bloated face of some poor woman. “There’s more; the water’s been off on this street for two days for repairs, so never mind the salt, the water had to come from somewhere else as well.”

Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement. “Does this count?”

“What?” Lestrade and John asked at the same time.

“As retaliation rather than starting something.”

Lestrade’s look of confusion was rather unfairly amusing to John, considering how much he hated it when Sherlock did that to him. “As long as you stick to the bracelets, sure.”

“Do I want to know?” Lestrade asked, _sotto_ voice. John couldn’t help smiling as he shook his head.

The body had no obvious signs of trauma, no odd-shaped lividity or post-mortem bruising to indicate that she’d been moved roughly, and no signs of anything other than full-body immersion in salt water.

“She’s been dead for… just over twelve hours,” John said, checking the rigour. “I assume tox screens have been sent off?”

“She’s blind.”

If Sherlock had been checking her eyes, John wouldn’t have even asked. But he was checking her left hand. John opened his mouth and then closed it. Sherlock met his eye and, with a small smirk, set about explaining his reasoning. “Calluses from walking with her dog, with a bar rather than a leash. Her right hand has different calluses from carrying a cane.”

It was amazing how much more tolerable Sherlock was during a case.

“Does that matter?” John asked, playing along.

“It depends. A blindfolded person would pay attention to sounds to try to orient themselves, but a blind person, one who’d been blind long enough to get a seeing-eye dog, would have likely learned to pay attention to all available senses. Given that there’s no sign of a struggle, and that the scent of salt water is unmistakable if one is paying attention, we can deduce that she was by, if not in, the water willingly.” Sherlock stood up. “Where’s the nearest spa?”

It was at the third place they went to (after Lestrade added public pools to the list of possible sites, ignoring Sherlock’s protestations that a middle-aged childless woman (how did he know she was childless? No one even bothered asking) would have no reason to be in a public pool) that they found the signs of her possibly having been there.

Dog hairs.

As the manager strongly protested the idea that she would _ever_ let an animal into her spa (which started one of the uniforms on a lecture on discrimination against blind people, which turned into backpedalling and stuttering and drama the likes of weekday afternoon telly) John watched Sherlock sniff the clean laundry.

“Wedding ring not ostentatious enough for him?” Donovan asked carelessly.

John rolled his eyes. “How many times to I have to… we’re _not like that_.”

“Right. You’re just living together, with Sherlock freaking Holmes, the least tolerable man in the universe, wearing matching jewellery, and he checks in with you before opening his mouth now.”

“What? He does?” …he had been. “That doesn’t mean… what you think it means.”

“And neither, I suppose, do the smirks and smiles you’ve been trading over the dead body?” Donovan smirked herself. “We may not all be Sherlock _freaking_ Holmes, but we’re not blind either.”

“Unfortunate choice of words,” Sherlock interrupted. “But you’re entirely correct. You’re _not_ me. If you were, Lestrade wouldn’t need to call me, and we’d all be a lot happier.”

“…except you,” John muttered under his breath. But he had to admit, that was rather restrained for Sherlock. Donovan might be right – Sherlock was behaving. For John’s sake.

Or to avoid the pain of the shocks. It had taken three days for full function and complete dexterity to return to Sherlock’s right hand after fiddling with the bracelet. Either way, John wasn’t one to argue with results.

“Anything?” Lestrade asked, having just come from reassuring the spa owner that discrimination charges wouldn’t be brought against her.

“Find the dog and you’ll find the killer,” Sherlock said. “Golden lab, about five years old, male, neutered.”

“There must be hundreds of dogs like that in London,” Anderson protested.

“Trained to be a seeing-eye dog and without an owner?” Sherlock scoffed. “Honestly, must I stipulate that it was a quadruped as well? We’d be better off trading the dog for you.” His eyes flickered to John, then back to Anderson, clearly trying to gauge how far he could go. “At least the dog would made a decent companion for anyone other than Dono–” He cut himself off as his hands fisted and his jaw set.

He took a deep breath. “…find the dog and you’ll find the killer.”

John’s heart raced in his chest. He’d done it. He hadn’t intended to, hadn’t really wanted to, but outing an affair in front of a dozen people who were working _very_ hard to look the other way was above the pale. So he’d done it. And Sherlock had… behaved.

It didn’t feel as horrible as he’d expected.

 

DAY 18

 

“So they caught the guy. A janitor at the spa. It was mostly accidental, but instead of calling for help he moved the body and took the dog, so…

“Donovan said the dog seemed happy enough once they got some kibbles into him. Guide Dogs UK took him back, and they’re probably going to give him to a fifteen-year-old boy.

“…if I apologize again, will you at least talk to me?”

Sherlock looked up from his laptop. “It’s not a valid apology if you’re not even sorry.”

John nearly wilted with relief. He’d missed that voice. “I am, though. Really, I am.”

“About shocking me, or about turning into Mycroft’s tool, or about upsetting me?”

…the last one, mostly. “All of them. I really… I never actually meant to.”

Sherlock stood. “You told me, when this started, to bite my tongue. That the rest of the world does so for most of their lives. I… I took it as a challenge. And I thought I was doing rather well…”

“You were!” …outside the flat. Inside, he was as abrasive as ever. When he was talking. “You really were, Sherlock. It was impressive. Even Donovan noticed.”

“And thought it was because we were–”

“Well, she was wrong about the ‘why’. But not everyone’s Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock cracked a small smile at that. “No. I suppose not.” He nodded to himself. “Guidelines are a good idea. I think we should have some for the flat.”

“No,” John said immediately. “No, this is your home. No rules here.”

“It’s your home too.”

John sighed. “How about this. No rules here, but wherever else we go – crime scene, the surgery, Bart’s – we’ll agree on rules before we leave. If we can do that, I promise that I can handle anything that happens here.”

“A decent compromise.” Sherlock held out his hand.

John reached out and took it, unable to stop his fingers from grazing the smooth metal of Sherlock’s bracelet.

For the first time, it didn’t seem alien and frightening.

 

DAY 21

 

“Have you called Sarah about returning to the surgery next week?”

“Not yet.” John frowned. “Since when did you keep track of things like that?”

“I assure you, I’m counting down the days until we can get these off.”

 _That’s not what I meant_ , John didn’t say. _I meant ‘since when do you keep track of things that are important to_ me?’

“Don’t blame you,” he said instead.

 

DAY 25

 

“Ground rules?” Sherlock asked as he slipped on his shoes.

“Mike can hold his own, and you’re not generally a huge git around him, so that should be fine. Comments about technique are, as always, valid even if they’re harsh. Personal comments about any of the staff should be kept to a minimum. No repeats of the Jim ‘gay’ thing, please.”

Sherlock winced so briefly that John almost missed it. “No. Not on any level.”

“Speaking of… Molly.”

“What about her?”

John sighed and remembered what Mycroft had said – it wasn’t that Sherlock couldn’t understand people, it was that he didn’t usually bother. “Just keep in mind that she has a crush on you and _be gentle_. She’s nothing but kind and sweet to you, and most of your comments to her are, at best, dismissive.”

Sherlock frowned. “I should indulge her attraction when I don’t return it?”

“It’s not the attraction that’s the problem. A lot of people are attracted to you, but Molly actually cares. I’m not saying you should wear tight pants or undo a couple of buttons on your shirt, just that you consider her delicate feelings.”

“So gallant, John.” Sherlock shrugged. “Fine. Chivalry. I can manage that.”

“No you can’t,” John said, grinning.

It was a little less funny with Molly in the actual room.

“So… working on a case?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. Twice. “No.”

“Oh. So this is something more personal?”

Jaw twitch. “Yes.”

“Need any help?”

“If I did, I would…” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Some agar, please.”

“Right!” Molly dashed off, with a bright, uncertain smile, and John felt more awkwardly uncomfortable than usual.

“What did you need the agar for?”

Sherlock shook his head, adding something yellow to the mixture he was concocting. “I didn’t, I just wanted her gone. This is more challenging than I expected.”

“Probably because you’re used to just lashing out at her.”

Sherlock glared at John over his experiment. “She’s not an idiot. Not a complete idiot, in any case. She’s noticed my attitude change and keeps… _prodding_.” Sherlock shook his head and returned to the experiment, measuring the temperature. “She’s being far more irritating than usual. And that’s saying something.”

John, honestly, couldn’t disagree. Molly was usually quite good at giving Sherlock space, even as her attention rarely wavered from him. But today she was crowding him, moving in closer than lab protocols would have deemed acceptable, never mind social etiquette. John had thought it was just because Sherlock wasn’t pushing her away verbally like he usually did, but if she was provoking him on purpose to get a reaction…

If Sherlock had suddenly started acting odd around him, John had to admit he might do the same.

“Look, I’ll run interference if you need, but–”

Molly walked in and John bit off his offer. “Agar.” She placed the container on the table and moved beside Sherlock, lifting one of the bottles he was using. “So… what’s this personal thing you’re working on?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s actually something for John.”

“Oh?” Molly asked cheerfully, looking at John for the first time.

“Actually,” Sherlock said with a small laugh. “You might say it’s for John and me. Us.”

“Oh.”

_Oh, please, don’t let him actually be playing that card…_

“Indeed. I’m sure you noticed the bracelets.”

“…oh.”

Great. Now John was a… what was the opposite of a beard? And was Sherlock trying to give Molly a complex after outing her previous boyfriend as gay? (…and a psychopath, a _real_ one, but that was altogether a separate issue.)

“I thought John was with… that tall girl.”

“Natalie.” It was rather sweet that she remembered. Better than Sherlock if the slightly furrowed brow was any indication. “That was about four months ago.” _Dear lord, he needed to get laid. Or at least go out for a meal like a proper adult_.

“Oh, so since then you…”

Sherlock grabbed Molly’s wrist. “Please stop fiddling with that.” His voice was cold.

John was at something of a loss. Sherlock hadn’t broken any ‘rules’ hadn’t stepped over any boundaries they’d placed, but he was clearly hurting Molly, dealing her a deeper and more permanent wound than any he’d dealt her before. “Sherlock, stop this.”

Sherlock turned to him, eyes suddenly blazing. “No, John, I don’t think I will. I’m following your rules like a good little boy, which is more than I follow the actual _law_ and it’s hardly my fault they lacked creativity and completeness.”

Molly put down the bottle, backing up. “I… I don’t understand…”

“Oh, of _course_ you don’t!” Sherlock snapped, turning on her. John flipped off the trigger guard. “You fabricate your own reality around you, ignoring all evidence that contradicts it.” John pressed the button and Sherlock’s shoulders tensed, but otherwise there was no reaction. “But it’s useless talking to you about it, since the key to delusions is that those suffering from them refuse to let them go, no matter what.” John pressed the button again. “At least it shows a modicum of creativity, even if it underscores a lack of intelligence.” The button again.

Sherlock whirled around, advancing on him. “And _you_. You sanctimonious _prat_. Waving around a sword of Damocles as if _potential_ danger or pain could possibly be a threat to me. Full of high ideals and promises, but as weak in the end as any puppet. You so confidently dictate ‘proper’ and ‘improper’ that it never even occurred to you to consider which side _your_ actions fall on.” John retreated, his hands falling to his sides as Sherlock crowded him against a wall. “Did you believe it, in the end? That you were the defender of some kind of ultimate moral good, protector of the little people? Your buttons are so easy to see, Mycroft must have had a ball pushing them, convincing you this was _for the best_.” Sherlock smiled, hard and mean. “For my own good, no? Your patronizing self-righteousness justified so cleanly by my harmful psychology.” He leaned in, even closer, his voice dropping to a threatening almost-growl. “And what of your own, John? The part of you that thrives not only on danger and risk, but on the destruction of the ‘other’. And the part of you that fools yourself into thinking you want a relationship, when you destroy almost every one you create; dating woman who want to build a life together with someone and lying to them until they see through your thin façade. The fact is you’re looking for the wrong kind of mate, John. You’re looking for strong, independent women, when what you really need is an immature girl who’ll be willing to take whatever abuse you dish out in return for warm meals and a place to sleep.”

John swallowed hard. “You mean like you?”

Sherlock jerked back, as if slapped. “I’m rarely left with vulgarity as my only appropriate outlet, but fuck you, John.”

As Sherlock stormed away, John closed his eyes and let his head fall back, hitting the wall with a dull thud. “I probably deserved that. All that.” He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was Molly. “Oh…” She must be devastated… “Are you alright?” He rushed towards her, stopping just short of touching, British reserve trumping the impulse to comfort.

“Am I…” Molly gave a shaky laugh. “He said such horrible things–”

“I know, I’m sor–”

“–to you.”

“…what?”

Molly hesitated for a moment, then reached out, covering John’s hand where it rested on the table with her own. “I’ve never seen him like that. Oh, he can be dismissive and cruel and thoughtless, often even, but I’ve never seen him _try_ to hurt someone the way he tried to hurt you.”

“I… that is…” He hadn’t simply _tried_ , Sherlock rarely tried anything without success. “It’s not that simple. There’s a sort of… situation that…”

Molly’s fingers slid up John’s wrist, not sensuously at all, and tapped on his bracelet. “This, yeah?”

“Yeah. Sort of. It’s complicated.”

Molly smiled. “It’s not the seventies anymore.” She thought about that for a moment. “I mean… I wasn’t even alive back then.”

“It’s differently complicated,” John said, rather than protesting that they weren’t like that. After that blow-up, he wasn’t so sure anymore. “And I can’t say I didn’t deserve it, unlike you.”

“No one deserves that,” Molly said. “I know… this might seem out of line, but I had a friend who was in a sort of… _troubled_ relationship and she got a lot out of support groups…”

John closed his eyes. “I am not in an abusive relationship with Sherlock Holmes.” He winced at how that sounded. “Actually, I should probably just have cards made out to that effect.” Molly laughed, then looked a little mischievously ashamed at laughing.

“You’re… different,” John noted. “When Sherlock’s not around, you’re more…”

Molly shrugged. “Crushes make everyone more awkward, don’t they? Well. Maybe not you and Sherlock, but most people.”

John had always thought of Molly as young, childish. He was beginning to see that she wasn’t really. If he’d known her better, before, maybe…

Molly yanked her hand away. “Ah. Best not continue that line of thought.”

No. On… so many levels. “Thank you, Molly. And, again, I’m sorry you got caught up in that.” It was a bit awkward, but if he didn’t offer now, John was afraid he’d forget. “Would you like to get dinner sometime?”

“I… ah, that’s very… um…”

“As a friend,” John added quickly. “I just realized these past few weeks that I don’t get out enough – out of the house, out of Sherlock’s way. And I… I could use another adult to talk to. One who understands him.”

Molly smiled. “Yeah. That actually sounds lovely.”

“Great.” John couldn’t take back what had happened, but he could do whatever _he_ could to ensure it never happened again.

Molly looked like she had something else to say, when Sherlock burst back into the room. “I’m still running an experiment. _You_ get out.”

“Right. I… sorry.” Sherlock didn’t even look at him, and John felt… bereft. Worse even than the day of silence after the incident in the spa. “I’ll just…” There weren’t any words to minimize what had happened. John turned and left.

Molly followed him, taking a deep breath once they were in the hall and shrugging at John’s curious look. “Technically he’s supposed to be under supervision if he’s using the facilities, but… I can’t be arsed right now.” John huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head. “Call me once everything’s settled, okay?”

“Will do. Thanks, Molly.”

John sighed and leaned against the wall as Molly walked off. Normally, if he’d been dismissed as useless to Sherlock, he’d go home or do some shopping or one of the numerous small chores that never really occurred to Sherlock to do. But there weren’t many shops within five hundred meters of Bart’s, and John couldn’t get his mind to focus on daily minutia or anything other than Sherlock, in the room across the hall, hurting.

…possibly. Actually, John had no idea if Sherlock even cared on any level other than his pride. That was, after all, Sherlock’s ultimate weakness.

Part of him hoped it was just that. Bruised pride could be fixed, and John was more than prepared to be made a fool of, to be surprised into outward shows of admiration, to be mocked, to be reminded of what a great man Sherlock Holmes was, over and over again, until the balance in their relationship was restored.

Even while part of him secretly hoped it was something deeper. That John meant more to Sherlock than bruised pride.

But that was ego talking, the part of John that he hated in himself, the part that lashed out at Harry just to see her hurt, to prove that he could hurt her. The part of himself that he occasionally saw in Sherlock’s cruelty, the part that made shocking him so cathartic, on so many levels.

Sherlock wasn’t wrong. He was a piece of work, alright.

There was a bench in the middle of the hall, wooden and hard, and too low for even John to sit comfortably on it. John considered it for a while before deciding to remain standing.

It couldn’t have been much more than ten minutes later when Sherlock walked back through the doors, stopping over two arms’ length away from John. John stood up straighter. “Well?” He tried to keep his tone neutral.

“The experiment failed. No point in staying here any longer.”

It suddenly occurred to John that the thing with Molly might have been the actual experiment, and the other stuff Sherlock had played with merely props. Sherlock snorted. “I didn’t come here simply to test our boundaries, I deplore collateral damage in experimentation.”

Right. Well, at least John hadn’t had to ask out loud. “So we’re going home then?”

Sherlock nodded. But he didn’t move. John waited.

“The… the impulse for destruction is not an inherently negative one. It’s often accompanied by a similar impulse for creation, like a brush fire.”

Dear lord, that was awkward. “I didn’t mean what I said either. And I don’t… I’m not going to… I should never have…” John took a deep breath. “I’m not your parent, or your owner, or even your pet. I’m your friend. And I never should have allowed myself to be placed in the position where I was dealing out punishments. That’s not how friendships work. I don’t know why you tolerated it as long as you have, and I don’t really want to know. I’m just sorry you had to. I won’t… no more ground rules. No more anything. Until these come off in five days, I’ll just ignore them.”

Sherlock nodded, jerky and graceless. He took a step forward. “I tolerated it because I trusted you. Not just to refrain from using it arbitrarily, but to use it to make me a better person. But the better angels of my nature disappeared rather quickly under mild irritation. I suppose that’s one of the flaws I was hoping you’d fix.” He reached out and brushed his fingers against John’s bracelet. “I placed an undue, unsolicited burden on you, as much as Mycroft did. The intent was good, but the result didn’t take into account… I don’t apologize, John, not even on the rare occasions when I’m wrong.”

“I understand…”

“I’m sorry.”

John had no idea why his legs felt weak. “Okay. Right. I… don’t really know how to react to that. Apology accepted?”

Sherlock took another step forward and their toes were almost touching and there was a wall at John’s back and John’s left arm jerked so that Sherlock’s fingers brushed against the back of his hand, sending a shiver of something down his spine.

“You weren’t wrong, at least not completely.”

“Hmm?” John asked, feeling a little slower than normal.

“I’m not a girl. The rest was more or less spot on.”

“…oh.”

Natalie had been five foot ten, so John wasn’t unused to kissing people taller than himself. He was, however, unused to kissing _men_ taller than himself, and also unused to kissing Sherlock and… Sherlock was surprisingly bad at this.

Strangely enough, that made things easier. John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s jaw, soothing and stroking as he took control of the kiss, humming encouragingly whenever Sherlock did something that felt good and pulling away, shifting the kiss whenever he pressed too hard, too eager.

It was, John had to admit, a much better form of conditioning than shocks. And Sherlock seemed to be learning quite quickly.

They pulled apart, not far, just enough that they could comfortably look each other in the eye. “Warm meals and someplace to sleep?” John asked.

“That _is_ what attracted me to you in the first place.”

John smiled. “Then let’s get back there, shall we?” He reached out with his left hand and laced his fingers through Sherlock’s, making the bracelets jangle as Sherlock returned the small embrace. “About time too. It was getting tiring explaining to everyone that we weren’t like that.”

“That’s why I left it up to you.”

“Lazy.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I felt your denials would be more honest.”

John looked up sharply at that. “How long…”

“Since Moriarty. I initially thought it was a stress reaction, but that hypothesis proved to be incorrect.”

“Oh.” John tightened his grip. “Good thing too.”

“Indeed.”

 

DAY 30

 

The front doorbell rang. John groaned and shifted, chasing the vestiges of sleep as they were torn from him. Mrs. Hudson could get it.

It rang again. Unless she was out. Ah well, maybe they’d just go away.

It rang a third time and John sighed, making his pillow shiver as his breath ghosted across a bare nipple.

Long, elegant fingers stroked over his neck and upper back, playing with the small tendrils of hair just over his nape. “That’d be Mycroft.”

“Hfza?” John asked, suddenly sharply and anxiously awake. “What the hell is he doing here at…” He checked the clock. “Ten in the morning? How did we sleep in so late?”

“Well, technically, we only went to bed at eleven. We didn’t actually get to sleep until four.”

John smiled. “So much for calling it an early night.” Sherlock’s hand slid lower down his back and John’s smile widened as he arched reflexively into that touch. “Your brother’s waiting downstairs for us.”

“Let him wait.”

John did manage to talk Sherlock out of showering (Mycroft must have been waiting nearly half an hour already) before dressing in yesterday’s clothes (they were in Sherlock’s room and nothing of Sherlock’s really fit him) and bracing himself.

He’d talked with Mycroft dozens of times. But never as Sherlock’s… whatever-they-were-now.

They should really discuss that at some point. Him and Sherlock. Not him and Mycroft, and he was going to meet with Sherlock’s older brother with these kinds of thoughts running through his head and his body still sticky and achy from last night (and this morning) and Mycroft was going to have him killed. Or worse; _Knighted_.

John couldn’t help it. The moment he saw Mycroft, he started snickering like a schoolboy.

“Oh, do grow up, John.”

He looked so… indignant. John carefully swallowed his snickers, before they could turn into full-blown giggles, and faced him. “Can I get you anything? Tea?”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m really just here to remove the bracelets, as promised.”

“Oh? Has it been a month already?” Sherlock asked casually.

“As far as an inexact measurement of time goes, yes,” Mycroft said, still genteelly peeved. “If there was another way to do this, I wouldn’t have bothered you, but the lock requires my DNA to open it. Even your clever attempts at short-circuiting it with diluted sulfuric acid to mimic biogenic sulphide corrosion wouldn’t have worked.”

Ah. So that was the experiment.

Sherlock shrugged. “Very well then. Shall we get on with it, or are you eager to drag this out?”

Mycroft sighed. “So ungrateful.”

Sherlock rounded on him, eyes blazing. “You are _not_ taking credit for this.”

John stepped between them. “If we’re making time for a proper family row, I’m putting the kettle on.”

“No need,” Mycroft said, outright smirking. “If you’ll just present your wrists, this shouldn’t take more than a moment.”

Sherlock looked like he was planning on protesting again. John just shoved his arm at Mycroft. “Thanks.”

The locking mechanism was hopelessly complicated but Mycroft had it off in under a minute. He took a bit longer with Sherlock’s – possibly to annoy his younger brother, possibly because Sherlock kept impatiently squirming until John held his other hand. Feeling the tension drain out of Sherlock at his touch gave John a bit of a rush.

“There.” Mycroft pocketed the bracelets, looking satisfied. “That should do it. Ah, just one more thing.” He turned to John. “I understand there’s a tradition I should undertake, as the elder brother…”

John managed a weak smile. “You really don’t need to.”

“…no. I don’t think I do,” Mycroft said pensively. “Well then, as long as that’s understood, I’ll be off.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft. No need to make this a regular thing.”

John sighed. “Drive… ah, be driven safely.”

Mycroft smiled. “Indeed.” He paused at the door. “Do try to get out of the flat once in a while. Before you grow sick of each other.”

Sherlock’s hand slipped out of John’s and around his waist. John beamed. “I don’t think that’s likely to happen.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “…for a while, at least.”

After making sure that Mycroft actually did drive off, Sherlock let John lead him to the washroom for that shower.

“That was less awkward than I expected,” John admitted as they undressed. “I guess it helped that it was Mycroft, so he already knew everything.”

“Mmm…” Sherlock hummed in that irritating way that meant he was listening and filing that away, but wasn’t really processing it. “Should we get them replaced?”

“…the bracelets?” John asked, biting back a grin when Sherlock shot him a look of pure exasperation. Since when had his arrogance become endearing? “If you like.”

Sherlock huffed. “I phrased it as a question to gauge _your_ interest.”

John laughed. “Alright then…” He actually thought about it for a moment. “I’d rather not wear anything on my fingers, at least not on my right hand.” He shrugged. “Might have to readjust my aim. Watch goes back on my left wrist, once we clean up and I can get properly dressed. A neckchain would work.”

“…a necklace?”

“Like for dogtags. As long as it’s thick enough it doesn’t even look inappropriate, and it fits well under shirts.” It seemed a reasonable compromise between nothing and something as ostentatious as the bracelets.

Sherlock shrugged and John lost a few moments just watching the play of muscles under his skin. “Come on, we can decide all that later. Right now I want to get you hot and wet.”

“Halfway there already,” Sherlock said, his hands smoothing over John’s back as John bent down to turn on the shower. John straightened and turned in Sherlock’s arms, reaching up to pull him down for a kiss.

“…how about earrings?” John asked against Sherlock’s mouth, smirking when that made his lip curl. “Or anklets. Ooh! Navel rings.”

“Shower.”

“Tattoos, then, if you’re not into piercings. Or hats!”

“No hats. Hats are just ridiculous.”

“Matching monogrammed handkerchiefs.”

“You, naked, in the shower.”

“…agreed.”


End file.
